I was at school. I was bored. This scene jumped into my head. So I wrote it down. Enjoy.
Oh, and I don't own Elphaba. Or Wicked in general. Shame that.
Elphaba regarded her reflection with distaste. The dark brown, almost obsidian eyes followed her every move from behind the confines of the glass. Her skin had always been clear – luckier than many – but she made believe that she would willingly trade the hideous colour for a skin disorder without a second thought. Her nose was too pointed, she felt, too bird-like. Her chin also could cut glass, should she so choose.
Not wishing to dwell on her unsatisfactory features, Elphie lifted the hat from her head, her face brightening from mottled to emerald in the absence of a shadow. Shaking loose the knot in her hair, it tumbled down over her shoulders in gentle waves, framing her face, lessening somewhat the intensity of the colour. Examining the tips, she noted how they were frayed, split. Glinda would have a fit, she mused, allowing a regretful smile to tug at the corners of her mouth.
She was glad she'd left her…friend, yes, that's what she was, to go back to Shiz. She was glad, she told herself sternly. Not that any good would have come of regret, mourning. It's not as though she would be missed. Not the green girl. What was it her father had always intoned? No-one mourns the wicked. That was it. For isn't that what she was? What are the outcasts, if not wicked? Yes, they thought her wicked. And it would be such a shame not to fulfil their expectations.